


Regarding Reference and Retaliation

by Jim_del_Carnival



Category: Don't Starve (Video Game)
Genre: Denial of Feelings, Love/Hate, M/M, Non-Graphic Smut, Sloppy Makeouts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-17
Updated: 2017-11-17
Packaged: 2019-02-03 10:07:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,455
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12746166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jim_del_Carnival/pseuds/Jim_del_Carnival
Summary: Wilson wished he'd never peeked into the tent last night. ჯ One-shot.





	Regarding Reference and Retaliation

**Author's Note:**

> I'm never writing smut again. I'm sorry, Klei. Your mime is predisposed to being tainted.

Wilson considered himself a catch. He knew he was quite the spectacle and wouldn't blame people for staring. After all, in his humble opinion, he was debonair and took just enough pride in keeping up his appearance. Other people would argue that he should take a little bit more pride if it meant he’d stay clean-shaven and keep his shirt tucked in proper.

He was used to stares. This, however, was just unnerving.

While Wilson sat propped against a full-crowned birchnut scribbling in his tattered papyrus journal, Webber crouched a few feet away. Webber had been occupying himself by drawing puppies and stick men in the orange dirt with a twig, but had lost interest. Now he stared at Wilson as though he were an ant on a doughnut. His circlets of silver eyes glinted like nickels under a lamplight.

It was beginning to make Wilson uncomfortable. He shifted and sniffed scooted a little to the side and scratched his leg, pretending he didn’t know Webber was there at all. As far as he was concerned, there was no such thing as Webber. He tried to focus on writing, but when he tightened his quill pen between his fingers and poised it over the page, he realized he completely forgot what he was writing about. He sorted through the clutter in his dusty brain a moment before resigning. With a sigh, he snapped the journal shut.

“Do you need anything, kid?”

Webber’s face split in a grin that bared jagged rows of teeth, like Russian stacking dolls with bear traps instead of dolls. Wilson's hair stood on end like cactus prickles. God, he hated when Webber did that.

Oblivious to Wilson’s discomfort, Webber said, “What were you writing?”

Wilson never could resist the opportunity to talk about his work. Begrudgingly, he opened the book back up, and the pages spread open from the crooked sewn spine.

“Keeping a record of things I see here. Things that happen. One can never tell when something might come in handy later.”

“Oh.” Webber nodded like a hoary but enthusiastic sage. “You're smart, Mister Wilson. We wish we had books, but we remember. We remember everything here so we don't have to write.”

Wilson chewed on the rough inside of his cheek for a moment, putting a hollow in his jaw. Finally he said, “I don't remember things as good as I did. Everything blurs together. Losing your mind three or four times seems to have that effect.”

Webber tipped his head to the side, considering this. The spider legs dangled like pipe-stems. “Are you old, Mister Wilson?”

Wrinkles bunched up under Wilson’s eyes to narrow them. “Excuse me?”

“Old,” Webber said. He drew a couple of squiggles in the dirt with his twig. “Old people forget things. Grampa forgot if he put the tea kettle on sometimes.”

“I’m thirty-two,” Wilson said with as much bite as a cup of wormwood tea. “I'm in the prime of my life. Sometimes brains don't process things right under extreme stress. Age has nothing to do with it.”

“If you're not old, then why do you have so many wrinkles?”

Wilson squeezed the quill pen hard enough to have snapped it. “I don't have wrinkles! No more than anyone my age is supposed to have.”

Webber pointed a stubby claw to Wilson's face. “You're making even more.”

Wilson focused all his energy, effort, will and what-have-you into working his face out of its plaster of Paris scowl. He managed to contort his mouth into a smile that would have looked a little more at home on a horse.

“You’re scaring us, Mister Wilson . . . “

Wilson took the invitation to let the crocodile smile thin out into his characteristic tight-lipped frown. Holding that grin even for a few moments had made his cheeks sore. He pushed his tongue against his gums in contemplation, then said, “How about you go find Wendy? You two can go step on flowers or plug up rabbit holes or something.”

“We don't play mean with bunnies,” Webber said as if admonishing a toddler. Then, another prompt piping question: “Why are you so grumpy today, Mister Wilson?”

Wilson thought an FBI interrogation would be less harrowing than this.

“Is today ‘Point Out Petty Complaints About Mister Wilson’ Day?”

“It's Tuesday,” Webber said, the sarcasm whizzing by him like a fastball. “We don't like when Mister Wilson is grumpy and makes faces. We like it when he’s happy.”

Bless your little heart, Wilson wanted to say, but didn't.

“Look, young man; we can't all of us be sucking on cotton-candy puffs of cloud nine all the time. Sometimes we have bad days and that's that. And sometimes people like to be left alone on a bad day without getting comments on what their faces look like,” he added with a special tart sort of emphasis that was tailored like a personal poison dart for Webber.

Webber was of course unfazed. “Mum said when you have a bad day, you should talk to someone who cares about you. You'll feel better then. That’s what Mum said.”

“Well,” Wilson said with a smirk cranking up one half of his mouth, “if you tell me where I can find someone like that, it'd be real keen.”

“We care.” Webber said this with such conviction and honesty that Wilson almost felt guilty for being rude. “We would listen.”

The gesture was noble enough, but not so much to stir Wilson.

“Very kind of you, but I'd rather you not.”

“Why?”

“It's a grown-up thing.”

“Why?” Webber kept thumping the “why”s like a bass drum. Wilson found it rather exhausting.

“Because. Because sometimes things happen to grown-ups and grown-ups think about things that don't concern children.”

“Like taxes?”

“Sure, junior. Like taxes.”

“Do you need somebody to talk to about taxes?”

Webber said this with such grave concern that Wilson wanted to laugh but couldn't. He almost said, “No thanks, kid; I'm quite all right,” but then a thought struck. If he sent Webber off, he could enjoy some solitude for awhile and then peace himself out into the woods before Webber came back dragging someone along with him like a bag of potatoes.

“Actually, that would be a burden lifted,” Wilson said soberly. “I would love to talk to someone about my taxes.”

“Okay!” Webber scrambled to his feet, kicking up puffs of red dust in a miniature bowl storm. “You wait here, Mister Wilson. We’ll be back as fast as we can.”

“Make sure you bring, oh . . . I don’t know. Willow. Bring Miss Willow.”

“What if we can’t find Miss Willow?”

“Breeze on, child,” Wilson said. Now relaxed, he leaned back against the tree and crossed his legs.

Finally. He could get back to his writing. Even if he happened to become so absorbed in it he forgot to take his polite leave before Webber returned, with Willow it wouldn’t matter. Anyone else—Wickerbottom, Wolfgang, even Winona—would pry. Or worse, tell him to hike up his proverbial twisted panties and resume his business without griping at children.

At least Willow had the sense to keep her sharp little nose out of his face. She would laugh and say, “Oh, Wilson. When will you shut up,” and give her skirts a flouncy little swish and trot away.

Nothing would have been more welcome. He really, really was not in the mood to discuss anything. The full potency of his earlier cantankerous mood came rushing back in a blast as heavy as Niagara Falls. It pushed down his shoulders into a slouch and urging gravity to put a little more work on the corners of his mouth.

Misery tended to love company, but considering Wilson’s was sufficient for two men, he preferred to be alone.

He held his pen in a tendon-splitting grip and began to write. He didn’t know what he was writing. He scrawled big crumbly letters over the faded papyrus. Tiny ink blots scattered like snot from a sneeze. Brooding made his penmanship three times larger than normal, and by the time Webber’s voice jolted him from his reverie, he had crammed five pages with three or four sentences.

He sighed in a wordless prayer for strength. He looked up. “Oh; greetings, Miss Wi—”

The halfhearted pleasantry died in his throat in throes that tasted like vinegar and puke. Webber had his claws latched not into Willow’s faded red sleeve, but the threadbare glove of—

—Wes. Wilson was stricken by the idea that if the tree he was leaning against suddenly morphed into a thirty-foot tall beast with a ravenous appetite for gentlemen, he would raise his arms to it as a willing personal sacrifice.

He wanted to grab Webber by his bristly skinny shoulders and give him a good shake like a ragdoll. Why did you bring him here, you little—

Before he got the chance to ask, Webber answered his question. “Sorry, Mister Wilson. We couldn’t find Miss Willow, and Miss Wickerbottom was busy. She told me to get Mister Wolfgang, but he was out with Miss Winona getting firewood. So we brought Mister Wes! He’s a grown-up, too.”

“Thanks,” Wilson said in a voice rasped up by sandpaper and rolled in barbed wire and burrs. “Thank you  _so_ much, Webber. You don’t know  _what_ you’ve done for me right now.”

Webber turned to Wes. Wilson tried not to look, but caught a glimpse of Wes’s face. He’d gone ashen as Abigail on a moonlit night. Wes complied limply when Webber gave his hand a tug.

“Now, Mister Wes,” Webber said like a kindergarten teacher instructing a class, “Mister Wilson has been very grumpy today and sad. He has grown-up stuff like taxes that make him grumpy. He needs to talk to you, because talking helps make it better. That’s what Mum said. Okay?”

Wes nodded, but his head more lolled like someone in a daze than someone giving an affirmative up-down tilt of the chin. Webber grinned, his fangs jutting like piano keys, and patted Wes’s hand.

“Okay. We’re going to go play with Wendy now. Bye-bye.”

Webber skipped away in little toddling bounds, his spider legs bouncing like limbs on a crib mobile. Wilson would have stretched out his arm and called for him to come back if his hand didn’t feel like it weighed a hundred pounds.

And Webber was gone like a milkweed puff on the wind, leaving Wilson alone with Wes.

Wilson would rather have been alone with ten starving hounds.

He didn’t look at Wes. Wes didn’t look at him. They both concentrated on ignoring the other, focusing instead on the skittering leaves and butterflies wafting on the breeze and the distant sound of water roaring like a seashell pressed to one’s ear.

Wilson hooked his finger under his collar to loosen it. It was smothering. Had the sun come out? He hadn’t noticed. Sweat started stinging his forehead and neck like minuscule needles. He swiped his hand over his brow and lowered it. He squinted at the slick sheen that glossed up the side of his thumb. He hoped his hair didn’t frizz.

Impatiently he tapped his fingers on his knee in an aggressive bumpity-bump-bump rhythm that echoed the pounding of his heart against his ribs. He twisted the quill pen between the fingers of his other hand, keeping up a fidgety routine to divert energy from the pressure that kept piling in his throat and would absolutely, certainly, and undoubtedly erupt in a scream.

When was Wes going to leave? He stood there, awkward and gangly and knock-kneed and looking nothing like how Wilson had seen him last night. Last night, when he was twisted in the tent like a Renaissance painting with his mouth agape in an expression of drooling bliss and his hand down h—

Wilson crushed down the memory like a hammer ramming down a spike with a sharp and metallic _splak_. And that was the end of that.

Or it would have been, if Wes would go away. Then Wilson could have taken his pen and gone back to scribbling in his book. But Wes didn’t go away. He kept standing there. He shifted his weight from foot to foot, his hands clenched behind his back and his jaw jutting in a defiant sort of scowl.

What did he want? Wilson stopped drumming on his knee and clutched his fingers into a hard knotted fist. He got the fleeting mental image of plowing his knuckles into Wes’s gut to send him staggering. The picture was generously sprinkled with loose imagination, because even if Wilson tried he wouldn't have been able to topple Wes. It would be like a preschooler tackling a football player. Wes wasn't exactly built, but he was far from being a knobby-boned wisp. He had tough arms packed with muscle and fat; not at all brawny and by no means slim, but still solid enough to deliver a sound whaling.

Wilson kept marinating in his sour mood like a shriveled old cucumber in brine. The idea that Wes actually could give him a pounding didn't sit well with him. The thought was like a hastily eaten supper of souse and boiled livers on an empty stomach.

Finally he couldn't stand it anymore. Wilson looked at Wes and said, “Don't you have something else to be doing? Picking flowers or chasing kittykits or holding hands with everyone in a mushroom ring?”

Wes glared at Wilson for a long time. With his eyes narrowed to slits, he directed at Wilson a gesture which involved a stealthy out-and-up flip of a particular finger; a finger with which Wilson had become somewhat acquainted but was nevertheless not keen on seeing at the moment.

“You try that again.”

Wes didn't need to be dared twice. He raised his arm like a flagpole and waved his hand, the middlemost finger extended to declare an opinion louder than any voice could have managed.

Wilson wondered how much effort it would take to break that finger.

“Wes, if you don't—I—you—” Wilson started off with a threat but ended with a floundering splutter. “You put your hands down. It wasn't my fault I walked in on you!”

There. He'd brought up aloud what they'd both been stewing over. Wes’s scowl slipped for a millisecond, then settled back harder than ever. His chin went tight and his mouth squeezed into the shape of a venomous black heart.

“Exactly,” Wilson said. He clapped his book shut and cast it aside. “You've been acting like this all day, and I didn't do a thing. How was I supposed to know what you were . . . .” His voice trailed off, and he started again. “How was I to know that you were in there? If you were going to get so bitey over it, you should've put up a sign.”

Wes looked horrified by the notion.

“Well, if you didn’t want anyone to know about it, you should've gone out two or three miles into the woods so nobody but the birds and the bees would've seen. Apparently you're on excellent terms with birds and bees.”

Abashed, Wes glanced askew.

“You should be glad it was me who opened the tent. Can you imagine if it'd been Miss Wickerbottom?”

Wes turned white as a snowcap. Wilson knew his own southside would've shriveled if Wickerbottom had caught him indecent. And Wickerbottom wouldn't have silently closed the tent and booked it like Wilson had. She was more apt to have pulled the tent flaps open with a flourish and deliver a sermon on the absolute thorough unrighteousness of a hand’s endeavor into trousers.

Wes was petrified. His elbows locked against his sides and his shoulders were hard. He looked as if he'd been forced at gunpoint to swallow a live scorpion.

Wilson almost felt guilty. Almost, but not quite. Not enough to make him clamp his mouth shut, at any rate.

He pressed a little further like a persistent thumb on a bruise. “And to think you'd do it with kids nearby. Do you get off on risk or something? What were you thinking?”

Wes’s hardened shoulders hitched up to ward off the verbal blow. Wilson couldn't resist prodding deeper, pushing a bit harder, a tongue aggravating the toothache.

“Whatever you were thinking about, it must have been pretty potent. Your face was just —” Wilson broke off, but like a stumbling racehorse regained footing and charged on:

“Let me guess. It was Wolfgang? No? Woodie . . . ? Or was it Wickerbottom? You always have been an odd one. I wouldn't put it past you.”

Wilson didn't exactly know why he plunged into the tirade with such enthusiasm. Somehow watching Wes shrink back with his collar bunched around his chin and his face scrunched into a grimace was immensely satisfying. Even though Wilson already knew, he kept asking, pushing, taunting.

“Was it Winona? You seem like you’d fancy a woman that can strangle you with one hand. Wigfrid seems that she’s taken a liking to you. Did you finally return the favor? Or wait. Don't tell me. WX-78. I can imagine.” Spurned by spite, Wilson gave an extra-loud hacky bark of a laugh and smacked his knee as though he were in a stand-up comedy routine. “Clunk, clunk, am I right?”

Wes looked as though he would have paid to trade places with a cadaver. He might as well have been. He didn't move or blink; he kept his eyes screwed shut and his lips pursed.

Wilson knew. He already knew, but still kept plowing on. “So if not WX or Winona or Woodie, than who? Wait, uh; whom? If it’s Willow, so help me God, Wes, I'll—”

Wes lowered his gaze to the ground, but not before Wilson saw the funhouse-mirror shine go glazing over his eyes like varnish.

Wilson froze. His eyes pinched into squints. No way. Wes wasn't crying. Couldn't be. There was no way. Especially not like this, in a valiant struggle to look casual as he dug his knuckles into his eye. His makeup smeared. A pink streak crossed from the lopsided circle painted on his cheek to the crest of his jawbone.

Wilson found himself at a loss for something to say. It was easier to bicker when Wes was feisty and flashed him obscene gestures and glared. But crying? And trying to hide that he was? Wilson didn't know what to do. Part of him wanted to slap Wes’s face hard enough that Wes would be perpetually looking backwards when he walked forward.

Even when Wes was fighting back tears he didn't make a sound. He cried ugly. Wilson all at once was tired, achy, and hot. And the last thing he wanted to see was Wes scouring away sticky tears of frustration and anger and embarrassment.

Wilson huffed. Debating, he concentrated on a sprig of dry grass on which a ladybug perched with candy-shell wings spread. Finally he gave a curt nod; a jerk of his head to the side.

“Sit down.” He said it so gruffly that a robber holding rope and offering his victim a seat would've sounded more inviting.

He wasn't sure why Wes obeyed. Maybe because Wes already realized he was up to his neck in a figurative mudhole and didn't want to chance giving Wilson a reason to push him under. Or maybe his mind was so muddled and dazed he didn't even think. But he trudged to Wilson's side, keeping his head low, and sat. Heavy, like a sack of oatmeal. He bent his knees to hold his legs securely against his chest and stared far into the distance. A welcome breeze ruffled his frowsy hair and pushed a few pieces into his eyes, but he never made a move to brush them aside.

“So,” Wilson said. The word dropped in the silence like a brick on concrete. “Uh . . . I didn't know it’d upset you like that. I mean, I was hoping to upset you. But not like that.”

_Not in a way that’d make me feel bad_ , is what he meant.

Wes didn't even blink in acknowledgement.

Wilson waited. He shifted, more uneasy than ever. “You needn’t think I wasn't upset when I walked in. Webber told me I was old today. I shouldn't have dismissed it considering I aged about fifteen years. Imagine it. You're tired, and you lean into the tent expecting it to be empty and the first thing you see is someone doubled up with one hand halfway down his throat and the other one h—oh god.”

Wes finally looked at Wilson. He cornered his bloodshot eyes, and the searing glare could have made a bird drop out of a tree dead as a pincushion.

Wilson offered a placating grin. His cheeks burned, as if someone had given him a good hard few slaps. He hoped his face wasn't red.

Wes kept glaring, heat building like Nebuchadnezzar's furnace heated seven times hotter.

Wilson really,  _really_  hoped his face wasn't red.

Wes looked away, dismissing Wilson the way he would a gnat. Exceedingly uncomfortable, Wilson reached between his knees to pick at some grass. Anything to occupy his sweaty hands. He twisted a stalk around his fingers, his mind replaying one particular scene over and over in crystal-clear definition and Technicolor.

“So,” he began again in another slow and hesitant drawl. “Last night. When you were ja—doing that. What was I doing? Like . . . in your mind. When you were, uh, imagining it. With me.”

Thunk. It fell solid as an anvil and twice as heavy. Wilson had already known, but the way Wes flinched and snapped back like someone recoiling from a snake erased any stray smidgens of doubt.

Wilson played with the grass, wrinkling it between his fingers. He pilfered a peek at Wes. Wes sat like a boulder, completely still. A sparrow could have lighted atop his mess of sun-coppered hair and he wouldn't have noticed.

Wilson cleared his throat. “I must have been doing a pretty good job.” He started off with a joking tone, but it fell flat as week-old soda halfway through.

Wes sniffed. Wilson couldn't tell if it was a snotty sniff or a disgusted, disbelieving one.

“Honestly,” Wilson said. He cast the grass away. Little pieces of it were toted off on the breeze. He watched them disappear. “I want to know. For reference.”

Wes turned his head, for the first time, to face Wilson.

“Who says I'm talking about for you?”

But they both knew.

Wes tilted his head, glancing aside.

“Wes. Tell me or I'll be the one to do some telling.”

The threat found its mark like Robin Hood’s arrow. Wes bent over to hide his face against his knees, struggling against his own internal conflict.

“Wes,” Wilson insisted in a tone of iron and glass and icicles.

Wes sat upright and blew a harsh sigh through his lips. His eyebrows lowered, bunching wrinkles between them. Exasperated, he twisted to face Wilson and spread his arms wide, then drew his hands in toward his chest. Wilson watched the path of his hands. His eyes widened before he caught himself.

“Pfft. Is that all?” Wilson said, his voice tapering off on a daring edge.

Wes’s expression went steely. He dug his fingers into his chest, his loose red shirt crumpling under his hands. Then, he relaxed his hands and smoothed them upward toward his collar. The flash of white gloves against dark red was hypnotic.

He slid one finger beneath his collar and bent it, tugging down his collar slow as cold molasses. Wilson stared as Wes pulled his collar low to expose his neck. A little lower to bare the knoll of his shoulder. A little lower, little more, and Wilson went pale as a steamed cauliflower.

He glanced up and found Wes looking right back. His eyes were half-lidded and sleepy, but full of a latent gleamy mischief that Wilson couldn't quite identify but immediately hated.

“Y—yeah?” Wilson said, the word rising on the upward slope of a challenge. “That's no big deal. Surely you weren't that excited over a little pat-and-pass.”

Wes’s expression was blank other than the creases that bunched along the bridge of his nose and the slight downturned curve of half his mouth. Still with his eyes halfway closed and cloudy, he brought his hand to his mouth. The end of his middle finger grazed his chin and touched his lips.

Wes nonchalantly caught the finger of the glove between his teeth. The threadbare fabric stretched. He tilted his head back to tug. The glove slid from his hand smooth as butter and dangled limp from his mouth like a rabbit in the jaws of a bobcat.

Wilson swallowed. His tongue was as useless as a dry old chunk of leather in his mouth. All at once a sensation of dread rinsed over him in a hot wave, as though he'd leaned halfway into an oven.

With the glove still between his teeth, Wes leaned back like a dog reclining in wait of attention. He bent his knees. A lazy grin thinned his lips. With Wilson as captivated and horrified as a mouse in front of a cobra, Wes brought his knees apart to spread his legs a hairsbreadth. Wilson panicked.

“Geez! Okay! I get it!” Wilson's gaze dropped to an area somewhere tangent to the general space between Wes’s thighs and promptly swung as far away from there as possible via a hasty and prude jerk of Wilson's head. His face was scorching. Wes simpered. Wilson seethed, doubling over to clamp his fingers into his hair with all the force he could muster.

Wes's eyebrows inched up as he watched. He never remembered before seeing Wilson ruin his own hair. His slicked-back stack of gray-streaked hair was his pride of life. Wilson would sacrifice a limb to keep his hair in order. And now he sat hunched over like a rock, raking his fingers back and forth over his scalp to aggravate his hair into every possible direction and some impossible, muttering to himself the whole time.

Wes’s grin stretched a little bit further. As clearly as if he'd put his flourished signature on a note of surrender, Wilson told Wes that he had lost the battle and lost it rather sorely.

“Ugh. Ugh.” Wilson pinched the wrinkles that scrunched up the bridge of his nose, screwing his eyes shut. “Fine. Fine! I apologize. I'm sorry for yelling at you and for walking in on you and for everything else that you and everyone else in this godforsaken world blame me for. There. Are you happy?”

Wes lowered his head forward enough for his frazzled bangs to sift over his forehead. He closed his eyes in a brief nod of acknowledgement. When he opened them again, they were bright with sparkles of mischief. Wilson may have lost the battle, but Wes didn’t yet see a peace treaty to end the war. He stretched back, putting his weight on his flattened hands, and began to part his legs again. Just a degree, just an inch, but just enough to tell Wilson all he needed to know and a little more that he never wanted to know.

Wilson tightened his shoulders and tried to keep his attention on the bee that hovered above a little clot of buttercups. The heat was unbearable. It pushed from a bit below his belt and up into his core and made his arms feel like melted wax and sweat ooze out in big shiny connect-the-dots over his creased forehead.

Wilson tolerated the discomfort for a few moments longer. Finally, he blew a sigh through his pursed lips and cut a sidelong glance at Wes.

“So,” he said. “About that reference.”

His voice was about three times louder in the silence. Plunk. His words fell, and the instant they did, he regretted it.

Wes smirked. A smirk was the only way Wilson could think to describe that look. It was self-satisfied and haughty, like the face of a teacher’s pet pointing out exactly who had flung the eraser. Wilson felt color rush sharp into his cheeks.

Sly as a cat, Wes lifted his shoulders and tipped his head to the side in a posture that only spelled invitation. Wilson tried to ignore it. He tapped his fingers on his leg again, the ache in his gut rising. He didn’t want to give in at the first invitation. There was no way he would let Wes believe he won. No way he’d let Wes think for an instant that he’d somehow succeeded in overcoming Wilson.

He debated. As usual in Wilson’s life, the metaphorical imp on his shoulder, strengthened by many victories, won out once more. Wilson relented. He crept closer to Wes. Edging forward, he leaned over him on his hands and knees and looked down into his face.

He couldn't quite maintain eye contact. Just as well. If he'd paid too much attention to that look of daring, his ego would suggest that he ad-lib. Wilson didn't know how to perform impromptu in this case. In a safety-first guideline he assumed it would be a good idea to do exactly what Wes had imagined him doing last night.

He never realized he was thinking these thoughts as he leaned over Wes, almost nose-to-nose. All he could focus on was the uncomfortable emptiness in his gut and how his arms shook like pepper jelly in crates packed in the passenger seat of a Model T. But the thoughts were there, and subconsciously he was listening, and he was more than ready to be rid of the tension that had been building all day.

“You—” Wilson said: “you say it was s—something like this?”

His voice cracked. To distract from his nervous stammer he jarred forward on his knees and thrust one hand into Wes's hair at his nape. He clenched his fingers into a fist around the sweaty strands and twisted, forcing Wes’s head to the side.

Wes resisted at first, a grimace putting furrows around his nose. But he acquiesced and moved his head when Wilson pulled on his hair. His big collar slipped to expose his neck. On impulse he reached up to adjust the collar, but when his fingers unfurled near the rolls of fabric he reconsidered. The Cheshire grin returned.

All at once, with his hand wrapped in Wes’s hair and while practically laying on top of him, Wilson realized that he still had no idea what to do. His mind went as blank as a chalkboard during summer. All his machismo vanished. Disappeared like smoke in the wind. All he knew was that Wes had been teasing him, now Wes was under him, and it was all too reminiscent of yesterday and Wilson wasn’t sure he was keen on that.

With not a thought in his rubbery brain and only a primordial instinct urging him, Wilson yanked Wes’s head to the side so abruptly that a couple of vertebrae cracked. With a deep inhale that almost put a rip in his lungs, he bent down and buried his face in Wes’s neck. He didn't breathe and didn't try to. With all the energy of a cornered hound he pressed his nose into the space where Wes’s neck sloped into his shoulder, and opened his mouth.

Wes clearly hadn't expected it. Wilson heard his breath hitch and saw his chest go still when he held that breath for all it was worth. With his heart stopping up his throat, Wilson hung onto Wes’s hair like a chameleon to a branch and dug his teeth into his neck. He flattened his tongue against the flesh he held between his teeth; not hard enough to draw a tang of blood, but more than hard enough to make Wes suck in a hiss and raise his hips off the ground.

The reaction was satisfying. Confidence came creeping back to reassemble the scattered puzzle pieces of Wilson’s ego. Wes might have taunted him, but now Wes was the one on the ground with teeth in his neck. Wilson thought it was rather poetical justice.

“That—” Wilson opened his mouth to speak and left behind a lopsided oval of hot toothmarks—”is gross. And you like it?” There was a note of disgust, a hint of contempt, that was more than deliberate.

Wes refused to look at Wilson, still recovering from having been caught thoroughly off guard. Wilson tightened his grip on Wes’s hair and tugged until they were face-to-face.

“And what else was it you dreamed I did?” Wilson's eyes sank half-shut as he said this, purposely. He concentrated on looking as calm as someone watching clouds drift by. He was only taunting Wes the way Wes had taunted him. He'd seek a petty revenge against anyone else just the same, he told himself. But deep down he knew he wouldn't.

Wes lay beneath Wilson, watching him with wary interest. Wes didn't move. He waited, muscles tense, uneasy. Wilson raised his hand. His fingers curled. Wrinkles lined the base of his thumb. Wes stayed still as stone when Wilson lowered his hand and touched it to his shoulder.

Wilson focused on keeping steady. He was controlled, cool, and in charge, only a man metering out justice. A man unaffected. He only hoped Wes didn't notice how his hand shook.

He dragged his fingers light as a breeze down Wes’s breastbone, in jerky movements like someone inching his fingers toward a mousetrap. Wilson put his tongue between his teeth and winced as he flattened his palm over Wes’s chest and drew in his fingers to squeeze.

Wes sat bolt upright, hands on the ground for anchorage, and bent his knees as he doubled over with all his weight pushed into Wilson's hand. With his hand caught between Wes’s chest and his knee, Wilson was stricken with the idea that he knew what rabbits caught in snares felt like. Wes’s knee crushed the back of his hand, and before Wilson realized what he was doing, he squeezed harder, Wes’s shirt bundling between his fingers. Wes arched his back into the grip. His face was scrunched in the same expression Wilson had seen in the tent.

Wilson went ashen. He became acutely aware of how all the pressure and heat in his chest dropped about twenty inches lower and lit up like gasoline on a bonfire. For three and a half seconds he wished he hadn't buckled his belt through the fifth hole this morning. The thought promptly sank to the bottom of his mind like an old boot in a pond.

It was a scientist's instinct to take risks against better judgment. Maybe that's why he didn't think twice before latching onto Wes’s shirt, swinging one leg over, and hauling himself onto Wes’s lap to straddle him.

The instant he sat, a flood of static-charged warmth went through him like an earthquake, in the same shaky relief of taking weight off a pins-and-needles foot. He clamped his knees against Wes’s sides and with a sharp twist of his hips ground forward. The relief of pressure and contact was so overwhelming he would have laughed, if he were anywhere else and with anyone else—but he wasn't, so he didn't. He dug his fingers into Wes’s shoulders like he was trying to pry the meat off his bones and said through a huff, “Hang that reference.”

Wilson wasn't good at ad-libbing, but he was ready to try.

Hanging onto Wes’s shirt with one hand, he lifted up and pressed his other hand to Wes’s face. If it was anything gentle to begin with, Wilson remedied it. He stiffened his fingers and pushed them into the soft jaw hard enough to leave a fan of fingerprints under the white paint. Makeup smeared over Wilson's hand in a cream-and-pink slash. He didn't care, for once. With a viselike pinch on Wes’s cheek, he tugged to bring Wes’s face closer.

The reluctance and hesitance was gone. Wilson gripped Wes’s face, lifted himself up, and opened his mouth. Wes didn't catch on in time to comply. When Wilson leaned in, his tongue flattened against Wes’s lips instead of slipping between them. He froze, his eyes flying open, one hand squeezing Wes’s cheek and the other clutching his shoulder hard enough to crack it. The bitter taste of charcoal lipstick went dry on his tongue.

Only he, Wilson thought, would have the luck to be stuck with a mime that didn't know how to return the kiss so commonly associated with his Gallic home.

“Ohen uh, geniuh,” Wilson muttered with his tongue still pressed to Wes’s lips and his breath a little too hot on his face.

Wes blinked.

Wilson leaned back, eyes narrowed, glowering.

“I said, open up, genius.”

He didn't give Wes time to obey on his own accord. In one swift move he reached up, thrust his thumb into the corner of Wes’s mouth, and vaulted up again to force his tongue in. Wes’s teeth grazed the hide off his tongue, but the burn faded when Wilson tipped Wes’s head back and pushed his tongue into his mouth as far as he could strain it. His stubble prickled Wes’s chin, making an odd skritching sound that to him was a hundred times louder than the ambiance of nature around them.

His mouth was hot. Sticky. Wilson knit his eyebrows in a grimace. He tasted a familiar tang that was the aftertaste of the hard, acidic red berries that grew everywhere in the woods. He squeezed Wes a little harder, twisting his tongue against his. The motion was more exciting by far than taste or texture; something hot in his mouth, pushing down, a pressure on his palate and the mushy bottom of his mouth that sent sparks clamoring through his nerves.

Wilson lost his breath. Haphazardly he lifted up his knees a little more to slide deeper into Wes’s lap. When he brought his weight down, Wes jolted, his shoulders going crooked, and breathed a shivery and muffled groan that vibrated Wilson's teeth and made him grip Wes’s shoulder tighter.

Wilson screwed his eyes shut. God, don't ever do that again, he wanted to say. Don't ever. It was the closest thing to a voice he'd ever heard from Wes. A shaky moan, emptied into his mouth, not husky and not deep, but mellow and thick. Wilson’s thoughts rattled off, pursuing the trail of imagining what Wes’s voice would sound like if he had one. A silvery soprano, running over gravel, feisty and brash to overcome the girlish lilt, but different when he'd say Wilson's name. Wilson wondered through a haze how Wes would say his name now. Sweeter, rich with feeling, a couple keys higher, softer, softer . . .

Soft. He was soft everywhere. Wilson’s hand slid from Wes’s shoulder to his chest and lingered. He could feel the throbbing of Wes’s heart against his fingertips. Wilson swiped his tongue through Wes’s mouth and over his teeth one last time before leaning back. Their mouths parted with a pop and a smack, ribbons of hot spit bridging their lips together before thinning and breaking.

Wilson didn’t look away from Wes. He lifted his hand to his chin, running his fingers over the sour drool that was already drying crackly on his stubble. Wes's lips were shiny. At that moment, the irrepressible need to be on his lips again was stronger than any need for food or water Wilson had ever experienced.

Breathless, gray spots crowding the corners of his vision like ghosts, Wilson slid his hands down Wes’s arms, over the faintly-sketched lines of muscle, and caught his elbows. Supporting himself, Wilson rocked forward on Wes’s lap to press warm and firm against his front. He drew back an inch, then forward again, putting his backbone and most of his strength into molding his hips into the space between Wes’s legs.

Sweat rolled down Wilson’s forehead in rivulets under the beating sunlight. Every muscle ached as if he'd stumbled through the tape at the end of a marathon. He knew he couldn't go back to camp like this. Not tonight. Not any night. He couldn't wait until dark and pray the others would fall asleep so he could sneak into Wes’s tent and let the patched animal-hide conceal them and stifle the noise. Wilson wasn't a patient man. He never had been.

Lifting up, Wilson slid halfway off Wes’s lap to kneel beside him, one leg still draped over his middle. Wilson curled his fingers into Wes’s shirt to push him backward until he leaned against the tree trunk. Bark flaked like loose dry paint onto Wes’s shoulders. His wide eyes flicked from Wilson's face to his hands, betraying a silent panic. His own hand closed discreetly into a fist that was poised at the ready.

“I'm not . . . going to . . . hurt you,” Wilson huffed, his breath as thin as the air above Mount Everest. “Not unless you . . . tell anyone.”

Even as he said it, he knew he had nothing to worry about.

His hand on Wes’s ribs ventured lower in a slow, dragging path. His fingers skimmed over the waistband of Wes’s trousers and a little lower until they knocked against a button. Wes jumped, digging his fingers into the dirt with a shaky breath that he inhaled in a few broken shallow huffs. Wilson craned his neck in a blind search for Wes’s mouth again. Wes’s hair was in his face, prickling his eyes, sweaty and frowsy.

Wilson circled his finger over the trouser button as he buried his nose into Wes's hair, putting desperate, tense open-mouthed kisses along his jaw. Wes turned his head, hesitantly, for the first time moving in his own compliance. His nose bumped against Wilson's hard enough to shoot fireworks through his brain. Wilson kissed before Wes was close enough. A couple of smacks were lost to empty air before he touched Wes’s mouth.

It was a jarring juxtaposition of sensation. While Wilson worked loose the buttons, he moved his lips against Wes’s, this time dry and slow. His shadow of a beard scratched against Wes’s face. The wax of black lipstick on his chapped mouth, smooth and rich, intensified each kiss, skin sliding over skin. Wilson unfastened the last button. Even in his moment of brief distraction, Wes continued the string of kisses, stamping soft black hearts to the corner of Wilson's lips, his cheek, his chin. Urgency quickened him. As if to divert his attention from Wilson's hands he reached up to grab his face, thumbs against his ears, each kiss harder and longer.

Wilson slipped his arm under Wes’s knee to lift his leg, moving it to rest on his shoulder. He pushed forward to raise Wes’s hips off the ground half an inch. Wes clutched Wilson's face with enough force to dislocate his jaw. While Wes was tense, every muscle drawn taut, Wilson eased his hand down his waistband swift as a snake slithering into underbrush.

Wes jolted forward. His teeth knocked against Wilson's. He locked his arms around Wilson's neck, and for a fleeting moment Wilson expected Wes would strangle him. Despite losing his wind, Wilson aimed his concentration precise as a laser on wedging his hand deeper into Wes’s pants. His other hand went to Wes’s hair again, tangling in it as he pushed Wes’s head tighter against his shoulder. And for all his vulgar teasing earlier, Wes finally relaxed his legs with all the hesitance of a dog slinking back after a whipping.

The sun burning Wilson’s back through his waistcoat would have been unbearable if he'd noticed. But the warmth around his hand was a matter more insistent on his attention. Wes heaved for breath, his jaw slack against Wilson's shoulder. Each thin puff of air rushed past Wilson's ear and stirred his hair, and each muffled grunt or whimper sent electricity all the way to his marrow. He clung to Wes as if any moment he would tear away. Buried his fingers in his hair. Pressed his cheek to his. Somehow his weight was comforting. The weight of his head on his shoulder, the weight of his leg over Wilson's arm, the weight of his chest against his as he doubled over.

And somehow, as the rush rebounded, Wilson realized that he was altogether thoroughly appreciative of having stumbled over Wes in the tent last night.

Wilson tilted his head to mutter something against Wes’s ear that the wind and buzz of cicadas carried away. Wes nodded. His eyes shut. He leaned back against the tree again, thighs apart, and folded his arms firmer around Wilson's neck.

Wilson bent down to seal Wes’s lips with another clumsy, awkward kiss, and with his heart racing so fast one beat blended into another, the world seeming to veer and dip into its side, Wilson stiffened his fingers and steeled himself and pushed that hand forward to—

“Mister Wi-i-i-l-so-o-o-n!”

All Wilson's blood drained, both north and south. He stared right through Wes and into the distance, into another plane of existence that he so wished he could disintegrate into.

Wes gasped into Wilson's mouth and choked, slamming back against the tree in his haste to break contact. His backbone struck the tree trunk with a resounding crack, and he yelped. The cry startled Wilson, and with an exclamation of his own painted with a rainbow of curses he ripped his hand out of Wes’s pants as if he was wresting away from a stove. He launched himself backward off Wes, scrambling and sputtering.

“Mister Wilson!” Webber’s voice pealed out again, cheery and excited. “Look who we got!”

Wonderful, Wilson thought. An absolute stroke of luck. The same putrid, rotten, decomposing luck that always followed him. He screwed his eyes shut and prayed. Prayed that a hole in the earth would gape open and swallow Webber and his company as easily as if they were bits of soggy popcorn. Or, even better, that a twin pit would open and gulp Wes down too.

Wilson gathered all the bits of his dignity he could find. They were fragile as shards of blown glass. He straightened his collar, swiped his wet hand on his pants, and turned to look over his shoulder at Willow.

Willow. Even better than Wilson had thought. He hoped he died soon.

“G—good afternoon, Miss Willow,” Wilson said with as much radiant charm as he could muster, which wasn't enough to be detectable.

Willow’s gaze swept him up and down, as though he were a rare insect pinned to a board and she an entomologist. A grin spread over her face and squished into her freckled cheeks.

Beside her, Webber gave a little hoot of surprise. “Mister Wilson!” he said, putting his clawed hands to his cheeks. His toothy smile was the widest Wilson had ever seen it, seeming to loop around his face two or three times.

“Mister Wilson,” he said again; “you have kisses on your face!” Webber’s voice erupted into a giddy squeal that could have served as a dog whistle. “Oh, my gosh!”

 Willow’s eyes lit up the same way they did when she watched a blazing fire. Wilson suddenly felt that every smudge of lipstick on his face was made of acid and eating into his flesh.

“Oh, my god,” she said. Then, three times louder: “Oh, my god.” And then as if she were bellowing into a megaphone: “You two fu—”

“ _Miss_ Willow!” Wilson snapped the 'Miss’ sharp as a rubber band as though it were her first name. “That is  _quite_ enough!”

Willow simpered like a cat full of cream. Her cheeks ballooned with withheld laughter, but only for a second. She crumpled over and howled, clapping her hand against her knee.

“Webber told me you needed a grown-up to talk to. Looks like you needed more than a chat. Boy, am I glad he didn't bring me here first!” Willow dissolved into another fit of laughter.

Halfway hidden behind Wilson, Wes struggled to button up his trousers. His hands shook.

It was when Willow lifted her head that she noticed Wes's distraught expression, his messy makeup, his tousled hair and how his eyes were glossy with humiliation.

Willow’s change of mood was abrupt as flipping a switch. She set her jaw. All the mirth faded when she squared herself and put her fists on her hips. Her eyes bored into Wilson.

“What'd you do to him?”

Wilson started. He wrenched around to look at Webber, then back to Willow in disbelief.

“I can't say with him over there! I mean—nothing. What? I didn't do anything!”

“Look at him!” Willow jabbed a finger in Wes’s direction. “He looks like he got run over by a trolley.”

“He always looks like that.” Wilson raised an eyebrow and smirked with all the smarm of a practiced politician wriggling out of a faux pas in front of the press.

“And I guess you always look roughed up like a guy in the magazines too, don't you?” Willow gave a haughty sniff and flipped her pigtails over her shoulder. She marched right by Wilson to crouch beside Wes. She grabbed his arm, but he avoided eye contact.

“Are you okay, Wes? He didn't push you to it, did he? Gosh, you look like hot garbage. Granny Wickerbottom will give up the ghost if she sees you like this.”

Wilson glowered like a troll beneath a bridge as Willow cupped Wes’s elbow and led him along. Webber followed behind, still babbling about Mister Wilson’s kisses and “it's not even Valentine's yet!”

But Wes looked over his shoulder at Wilson, and the pleading look in his eyes offered a question that even Wilson understood.

_Later?_

_Later._ Wilson mouthed the word. A tiny smile lifted the corner of Wes’s lips. He glanced away, embarrassed, but the smile remained. He trailed after Willow, and soon they were gone.

Wilson sat. He was exceedingly uncomfortable and ached. He felt rather winded by the whole affair. Had he really just—? Well. Well, well, well. He supposed his slick hand and lipstick-marked face was evidence enough.

He ducked his head and sighed. The breeze felt nice in his hair. When he opened his eyes again, he noticed his book and quill pen laying a few feet away in the dry yellow grass.

As if waking from a daydream, Wilson stood and trudged to retrieve his book and pen. The sound of crinkling paper was comforting. Almost without thinking, Wilson sat, opened to a clean page, and began to write.

Later, he thought. Later would be good.

**Author's Note:**

> Anyway. That one particular charming line of Willow's and the kiss-mark bit is loosely based on a comic by one of my best pals: http://art-of-dragonheadskilax.tumblr.com/post/165464184502/i-cant-seem-to-make-normal-fan-art-of-those-two. 
> 
> I wrote the entirety of this fic over a period of several weeks at work. At work, y'all. Stick it to the man.


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